You reach a point where you just can’t bare to hear those two letters anymore. Out loud or in your head. You’re in the middle of writing a phrase and those two letters come up AGAIN and you think “enough, I can’t anymore”, so you try to think of a different word and “pickles” is what comes to mind. For me anyways. Nothing against pickles, I actually really like sweet pickles. It’s just the first word that popped into my head.

I mention this because it’s worked, somewhat. I haven’t thought about pickles in a couple months. I haven’t gotten healthier physically, but mentally I’ve been a stone…no, a flower blooming on a sunny day. A rock sounds too…permanent.
I’ve been a happy flower, painting, writing, working on my book, sketching, planning a trip, researching locations, learning to play ‘fur elise’ on the piano, learning to create PDF’s, and I’m not crying. Until last week.

I got a call from the hospital to schedule 2 MRI’s. That made me think of pickles. And I cried. I don’t want to know how I’m doing drug free. I don’t want to see pictures of my disease. It’s like Schrödinger’s cat. Right now I am both. I am both getting better and getting worst. 50% chance of a healthier life is something I can live with. I cant handle anything less right now.

I don’t want to open the box